


In the Dusty Recess of Our Minds

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Half-Sibling Incest, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-11-28 13:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Murtagh tries to keep away from the rest of the world. He keeps on dreaming of things he can't have, though.





	In the Dusty Recess of Our Minds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrrhical (anoyo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/gifts).



> This is set immediately after the end of Inheritance. I wasn’t really sure which direction to take this pairing, so I hope you enjoy!

Murtagh went north, like he told Eragon after the Battle. He left Uru'Baen with a handful of belongings, an obscene amount of Galbatorix' money that he considered weregild, and a hole in his psyche.

North meant sleeping in caves and dense forest areas. The days were getting colder, and soon snow would be expected, and neither Murtagh nor Thorn were prepared for that eventuality.  Thorn -- Thorn had been aged up by Galbatorix, and his mind was still struggling to catch up with his body. There was not an inch of their bond that felt free of the manipulation and violation they'd been dealt by the mad king. Now, Murtagh could understand why Selena had hidden herself away in an unremarkable farmstead. Murtagh himself didn't know how to go on, feared Galbatorix' long fingers were still buried in his mind, searching for his secrets; even though Galbatorix was dead.

It helped that Thorn was beside him. Thorn always helped, even though he was part of the reason Galbatorix had been able to infiltrate his mind. Thorn felt ashamed of that, often. That was the guilt he could not let go.

Murtagh felt guilty about blaming him, too, and then he looked at Nasuada, and felt guilty about a whole other host of things.  So instead, he thought of Eragon who was infuriating. It was what a brother was supposed to be like, he supposed, but he didn't often think of Eragon in brotherly terms. Galbatorix had found that hilarious.

He tried not to think about that, either.

They kept to themselves, camped out in the woods. Murtagh set traps, and went out to farmsteads to lend a hand. For lifting heavy things, he was still useful even if his mind was a mess. So passed months. His back ached sometimes.

There was a surprising amount of updates from the happenings at the capital, now Ilirea again, especially since it concerned magicians, not really something most of the common folk was familiar with. Some people seemed very satisfied with the direction the new Queen had taken. Murtagh wasn’t sure he agreed. Trying to impose a hierarchy on magicians seemed like the fastest way to get them to run to — Surda, maybe. Or into the wilderness like him and Thorn. Especially, since the person he wasn’t thinking about had left Alagaesia. And he couldn’t see Angela abiding to those new laws either.

"Do you think we should go to Vroengard," he asked Thorn one evening, hiding out in a cave on the mountain rage. They couldn’t see the island in the dark, but in the morning it would appear out of the haze like a sleeping dragon.

_"There’s nothing there,"_ Thorn replied and curled in on himself. 

"But what if there is? Eragon isn’t the most—" he didn’t know how he would continue that sentence, because Thorn used a paw to knock him down, gently.

_"There’s nothing,"_ he repeated. _"It’s a wasteland, and it’s a waste of our time."_

"Instead we are going to hide from the Empire forever?"

_"Only until we are a little bit better,"_ Thorn said. His scales were warm and cosy, and Murtagh could feel himself slipping under.

"Are we getting better?" he asked. If there was an answer, he couldn’t parse it.

Then came the dreams. They had nightmares, occasionally. Sometimes, their fears aligned, sometimes separate nightmares bleed over into each other. That, they knew how to deal with. This one was different.

 

> _Fluidly, the bodies writhed, meshed against each other in a universal dance. There was heat, an inferno, a flying dance of epic proportions. Or maybe it was none of that, an amalgamation of things they had never experienced, and some that they had. Murtagh couldn't really see much; the arch of a neck, the beginning of a scar that didn't exist anymore, the tips of ears that went to point — Elven ears, except for whom they belonged to._
> 
> _Murtagh swallowed, his throat dry. He felt the pull of attraction, the pull to this one tether that kept him in the world. There was a long, agile tongue in his mouth — it belonged to his brother, and yet he knew his brother would never, was never, was in love with—_

He woke up, drenched in sweat, aroused to the point of pain. He must have made a sound, since Thorn was looking at him.

_"What was that?"_ Thorn asked, and it was the bewilderment, the surprise, that caught Murtagh cold. He choked, a wretched cry half-way stuck in his throat. 

"Was it that different from the usual?" he asked his dragon, possibly the only creature in the world that wouldn’t judge him.

Thorn was quiet, contemplative. _"It felt different,"_ he said, after a long while. Shame dropped down Murtagh’s back. 

_"It felt real,"_ Thorn said. He nudged Murtagh with his snout. _"Maybe we are starting to feel again?"_

Murtagh gave a short, violent laugh. It figured— when he started to feel again, it was— no, they weren’t going to think about it. "If those are my feelings, it’s better to keep them repressed."

_"Who are you hurting with them?"_ Thorn said. _"They are just feelings. We aren’t going to let anyone take them, and use them for their own purpose. They are just there. We don’t have to do anything with them."_

Quietly, they sat next to each other, and watched as the horizon slowly turned to colour.

The dreams continued, intermittently. The next time, Murtagh was prepared, didn’t quite fall so deeply down admiring Eragon’s slender built, his muscle tone, the way his eyes crinkled with laughter and the way he revelled in Murtagh’s attention — and then he felt it, too. Thorn had been right. The dreams felt more real.

And he woke up, hyperventilating again.

"Is it real," he asked Thorn, who did the dragon equivalent of a shrug. And fair enough, how was Thorn supposed to know. Most of the time, they shared the same consciousness. If one of them was going to go mad, the other would as well.

So they did what they always did, Thorn went out to decimate the overgrowing deer population, and Murtagh went out to repair tin pans, or some such.

 

> _"Eragon," his dream-self sighed, as if he didn’t know who those hands belonged to, as if he had to say the name. The other man was flushed, even with that tan that had appeared in the time they hadn’t seen each other. It was mesmerising — starting over the cheeks, running down his neck, following the line Murtagh needed to kiss desperately._
> 
> _He was pulled against him, reeled against the flood of emotions, the flood of desire, and satisfaction, and burning need. Eragon was strong, his equal, his counterpoint. He heard himself moan, heard his hitched breath, felt Eragon’s arousal. He wanted to bask in it for eternity, as the pleasure spiked, and the surroundings blurred out._
> 
> _And then they laid there, spent. For the first time, Murtagh could make out his surroundings. They were laying on furs, soft and rough against his skin. There was a bit of a draft coming through the cave-like structure._
> 
> _When he stood up to fetch a cloth, so they wouldn’t ruin the furs, he caught a glimpse of the terrain. They were high up, as high as the top of Farthen Dûr maybe, and before him stretched land he had never seen while awake. Steep faced mountains, rising like pillars into the sky, the bottom and top covered in a green that looked like garlands, holding up the sky. In the distance, he could see two dragons chasing each other around a pillar._
> 
> _He looked back inside. Eragon was entirely naked, stretched out against the fur. A knot of longing was lodged inside his throat._
> 
> _"Would you hurry up," Eragon told him, and he faded away._

"Fuck," Murtagh said. He was hot all over, and still his breath turned to white mist above him.

_"Yes, that’s what happened,"_ Thorn said, sleepily. _"Could you perhaps try to contain your emotions to your own mind?"_

It was cold, and it would only get colder. The food was getting sparse, too, and if Thorn continued to eat the deer at the rate he was currently consuming them, sooner or later, someone would send word to the capital. Murtagh wouldn't let that happen.

"Sorry," Murtagh said, absentminded. "Say, what do you think about going east, instead."

_"Great idea,"_ Thorn said promptly. _"I’m beginning to hate the cold."_

* * *

 

When the sun came up over the horizon, Eragon left the melancholy from leaving Arya and Alagaesia behind. The ship had been sailing throughout the night, and now it seemed strange, to wonder what could have been. Instead, he felt an uncommon euphoria for the new beginning, laying itself over the new dawn. Saphira, who had taken to following the Talíta while airborne, was uncommonly giddy.

The water was turning a deep, satisfying blue. It glistened in the sun, maybe a few shades lighter and greener than Saphira’s scales, but bright and almost as pretty. Saphira, having heard that thought, was preening. Vain creature that she was.

The air was fresh, there were no people demanding any sort of blessings or advice. Here, Eragon was no more or less important than anyone else. He might even be beginning to understand why he felt so much lighter.

"Eragon," Blödhgarm, among the Elves that were accompanying him, called out, and his carefree attitude disappeared like fog in the sun. "Someone is needed at the front!"

"I’m coming," he shouted.

And he jumped down from his nice place on the front mast, taking position at the bow for his directional duties. He extended his sense  to the bottom of the river, ignoring the bright spots of life and looking for the deepest and fastest drag of the current, calling out the directions to the person taking helm as they went. They were travelling further along the river, down where the river cut deep into the mountains on the way to the sea. There was a spell protecting the hull, but it would take only so much damage done by the rough stones of riverbed. The landscape was distracting, too, a momentous mountain range not easily traversable on foot. Eragon had never seen its likeness. Pillars of rock had risen into the sky, protruding out of the natural forest like trees out of grass. Eragon had to crane his neck to see the very edges of a passing pillar, and in the far distance clouds had enveloped another — and yet the gentle sloping river continued on. It was a veritable oasis of green, after the sparse landscape of the plains. There could be a place to build a dragon hall here. There could be wild dragons nesting in the heights, from far away mistaken as large birds. 

Saphira caught the last thought and expressed her discontent, but even she was impressed by nature.  _"It looks like the tales of old,"_  she said with an awed undertone. _"Look, a building!"_ At the top of one of the pillars, Eragon’s eyes could just make out a ruin of some sort. 

To the waiting elf, Eragon said, "I don’t think, we’ll make it to the bottom of the pillar soon, will we? And the river goes deep well beyond that."

Both of them looked towards where Eragon was pointing, and Blödgharm had to agree. "I don’t think there’s a need to attach yourself to the ship at all times," he added, and Eragon was swept with a sudden wave of affection for the elf.

"Saphira's taking me for a fly, then," Eragon yelled to the Elf keeping look-out. "We saw something to investigate."

"Shall we wait for you? There might be good wind coming soon."

"No, keep going, I will find you," he shouted, and vaulted himself onto Saphira’s back.  And then Saphira swept up into the clear sky, and the world felt like it was alive.

 

The building -- almost like a fortress with its impenetrable walls, high above the tree line-- was less run down than Eragon had assumed; magic and nature had preserved the space much like it must have been in times of old. The vastness of the towering cliffs melted into the sky to form an incredible landscape; unlike the forests of the Elves it didn't feel like much had been changed. The nature was here, had been here, would forever be here, and the dragons were a part of that. For all that the Elves were what they were, they didn't really understand the balancing act of nature. There was grass, to feed the wild sheep, and sheep to feed the dragons and all of them feed the grass.

_"Somebody_ licked _this out of stone!"_ Saphira crowed with delight, and Eragon had to admit it looked like that. The walls were smooth, without visible joints or cracks, and while magic could have played a part in that, some instinct in him was sure that his dragon was right. The spiral against the roof looked similar to the sculpture Saphira had created for the ceremony, too, in the way that Solembum looked like a cat. It wasn't an exact match, but what else was it supposed to be?

Eragon was distracted by the shiny threads of magic, of dragon magic, hanging from the spiral mountains. There were wind shielding, and self cleaning spots, and rock that had clearly been intended as some sort of brush -- for scales? Carpets? Eragon couldn't begin to guess. He wandered around the corner, looking for a cold box to preserve the last of his fruits, when Saphira said, abruptly, _"There was someone here, recently. I smell--"_

Eragon opened his senses, but he could only feel the vastness of life, not the bright flickering presence of dragons or other beings. Oh, wait-- there was a family of bright little hamsters further along the walkway. Probably near a food-stocking place.

"Dragons?" Eragon asked her. "I can't feel anything."

Saphira turned her nose into the wind. _"It's gone. I could have sworn I smelled something. Weasels, possibly."_

"It's hamsters, I'm pretty sure," Eragon said, and took a few steps towards the bright lights of souls. 

_"Who of us has smelled hamsters before, you or me?"_ Saphira said, indignantly. _"I know what I smelled. It was weasels, probably."_

Not really reassured, Eragon put his hand on Brisingr, and halted in his exploration. Saphira didn't usually have a problem with distinguishing between different scents. Something here wasn't right.

_"Something here isn't right,"_ Saphira said, alarmed, and then Eragon felt the sky falling down on him, and he was blacking out. The last thing he thought about was Angela's mocking smile, telling him to beware of hamsters.

It wasn't hamsters, Eragon was reasonably sure.

* * *

 

When he came to and opened his eyes, the world was still blurry. Saphira was hovering at the back of his mind, worrying, and someone else stood in front of him. The figure in front of him was vaguely human sized, and felt familiar. He must have hit his head harder than he thought, if he was hallucinating this badly.

"So," the voice of Murtagh said, and Eragon sagged in relief against what felt like dragon scales. "You must be the biggest numbskull in all of Alagaesia, brother." He paused to consider. "Probably also beyond, if I think about it."

"Uh," Eragon said intelligently. He blinked the water out of his eyes, and there Murtagh knelt, in front of him, touching his head in the same manner that Eragon had touched uncountable others, back on the battlefields. "How?"

"Because a hundred foot fall hasn't killed you, idiot." There was again, a vaguely familiar magic coursing through him, healing him from a fall, _that was most definitely not caused by hamsters_.

Saphira conveyed her disapproval in a very succinct manner, and then blew her warm breath at him. _"He's right, you know. That was very stupid of you. Falling into a dragon trap like that."_

"You agreed on checking out the surrounding pillar tops yourself!" Eragon said. "You agreed it was folly to settle down in the valley before checking out the skies!"

Saphira moved her head sideways, in the way that meant she remembered, but didn’t want to loose face by agreeing. Eragon, whose head was still tender, didn’t force the issue.

"Keep still," Murtagh said, and continued directing his healing magic into Eragon’s head. 

The headache he didn’t realize he had, receded, and with it came the questions. "What happened?"

"You stumbled upon millenia-old dragon wards," Murtagh told him, "because you don't keep an eye out when you feel something weird, no, you start poking it with a stick."

_"Or with his fingers, if he can't find a stick,"_ Saphira murmured darkly.

"I didn't poke anything with a stick," Eragon protested.

"Don't you have fancy Elf-instincts?" Murtagh asked. "Why don't you ever use them, then? Stumbling around ancient ruins, and expecting traps to just disappear. It's a wonder you survived this far."

"I'm alright," Eragon tried to reassure him, but Murtagh had just started to vent his feelings.

"Does he check for traps before hand? Does he check for hidden life signs? No! He goes traipsing around ruins, probably looking for freshly baked bread, or something!"

"Hey!" Eragon protested.

_"No, he's right"_ Saphira said, _"You did let yourself get caught by the food wards of an ancient dragon. Food wards, Little One."_

"Seriously?" 

"Yes," Murtagh answered, and his magic spiked for a moment. "Don't you usually travel with an entourage of elves?"

Usually? "We left them down on the river. It's not the easiest climb."

"And so you decide on investigating ancient ruins all by yourself?" Murtagh’s distain was palpable. 

"No," Eragon said. "Saphira was with me."

And then Murtagh’s blazing eyes found another target, and Eragon could breathe easier. "You shouldn’t let him stumble around on his own," he said to Saphira. "Didn’t we already have this conversation once?"

Saphira blew some smoke at him, _"You try keeping him away from trouble."_

Murtagh snorted. "Fair enough. You can come out now," he said into thin air. With a small wind gust, much smaller than the large form of the dragon would have demanded, Thorn landed on the stone ledge next to him. 

"May the stars watch over you," he said, and Eragon returned the greeting. 

Later, when Murtagh seemed finished, but hadn’t let go yet, Eragon asked, "What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but—Weren’t you going to head north?"

Murtagh grunted an affirmative. "I went north," he said. "I didn't stay there, because normal folks are still scared of dragons. I went further up, and there I remembered how much I don't like snow —Thorn wasn't very happy to be that cold either— and so I came down further south. Evaded settlements, of course, and then I thought about the past. Thorn had heard rumors of wild dragons in the East, and I thought maybe we'd find our own eldunari— you _have_ protected yours better than your own body, haven't you?" Murtagh's look spoke volumes.

"I have company," Eragon said, uncomfortable. "We are looking for—" and suddenly, he didn't know how to finish the sentence. What was he looking for in the Wilderness of the East, besides being as far away from the temptation of ruling anything more complicated than dragon eggs. Dragons, and nothing much else, that was what he wanted in his future.

"Saphira said something about a ship," Murtagh said, "hopefully they are smart enough not to investigate dragon ruins without triggering traps." He looked like he didn't have much faith in a company of Elves, but Eragon figured that was fair enough. He had been rather unwise, setting out alone. But there was no need for this amount of sarcasm.

"We went to look at your father, Thorn and I," Murtagh continued, still holding onto Eragon's head. Eragon was wondering if he should point out that the healing magic wouldn't heal more just because Murtagh held on for longer, but he decided to let it go. It felt nice, even if it was unexpected.

"Thorn wanted to look at the shiny beacon in the middle of nowhere. He thinks you look just like Brom, and I was stupid for ever thinking we had the same father." 

Thorn had been quiet, but now he sniffed, and moved his head so his eye was on level with Eragon — a gesture Saphira wouldn't do unless in dire circumstances, a gesture that conveyed a dragon's respect. Saphira's mind bristled, sharpened without really conveying anything — an innate nervousness seeing her rider injured in the presence of a dragon she had fought, perhaps.

Thorn said in his deep voice, always more melodic than Eragon remembered it to be, _"Your brother is lying."_ He sounded affronted, as if he didn't understand why anyone would, and Eragon was reminded that this dragon, despite his size and his battle prowess, was very young. _"He was the one who wanted to visit the grave."_ More shyly, he said to Saphira, _"It was very pretty."_

Saphira didn't say anything, but that was a step in the right direction, considering what Thorn had been made to do.

"Well," Murtagh said, "you are as fixed up as you will ever be." Then, standing up, he went over to his dragon, and patted down the saddle bags.

"What, you're leaving?"

"You aren't planing to jump down another ravine, are you?" Murtagh pulled the strap tighter, preparing the saddle for flight.

"Wait," Eragon said, "what have you been doing? It doesn't look like you just flew over from wherever and noticed I was in trouble. We are days out from anywhere civilized."

"What makes you think I was staying anywhere civilized," Murtagh said and showed his teeth. "And, as much as Saphira and I would like there to be one, there isn't actually such a thing as an Eragon-danger signal. If you must know, Thorn thought there would be Eldunari of some kind here, or maybe pictures, drawings, that could help."

Eragon almost asked with what, reconsidered, and then decided he couldn't fault Murtagh trying to reconnect with their heritage.  It was a smart idea, and he wanted to offer some of his own Eldunari to his brother, but he knew he couldn't. Murtagh was a Dragonslayer, a Kinskiller. But the Dragon he killed had been -- perverted. The dragon hadn't been in his right mind, had been in unimaginable pain. Did that count? He should ask them, instead.  "You could travel with us," Eragon proposed, deciding that they could decide once they had actually met Murtagh for more than just seeing him slaughter things.

Murtagh, his back turned, stilled. That didn't seem like something he had wanted to hear.

"Oh yeah?" he said without turning around, "Should I just follow you wherever you want to go, at your heel like a favored dog? I thought you didn't want to be King."

"That's not what I meant at all," Eragon replied, helpless.

"You should think before you speak, then," Murtagh said, turning around and coming closer. "It's going to be difficult at first, but I’m sure you’ll manage." He stepped right into Eragon’s view, shoved him up against the wall. "You are an idiot, Eragon. What do you think you left Alagaesia for, if not to sever all political ties? You won’t be able to, if you take me with you. My entire existence would be political."

Murtagh was so close up, it was almost uncomfortable. It was almost as if he was daring him to look into his mind, but Eragon didn’t want to.

Eragon knew his brother was going to leave again, was probably already planning on how best to knock him out, maybe bribe Saphira for not flying after him, and so Eragon grabbed him back, pulled him in, wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly.

Murtagh didn't seem prepared for any resistance, and seemed entirely unprepared for that resistance to take the shape of a hug -- he just stood still, like a stiff board.

Eragon wrapped his hands down his back; Murtagh was wider than him, stronger in the arms from a lifetime of sword training, and probably also from genetics. He was just that little bit taller, but it counted. Murtagh was armoured, but with leather now instead of dwarven steel.

Almost a year had passed since Eragon saw him leaving the battle, leaving the former Uru’Baen. He didn’t think Murtagh had seen much civilisation since then.

"You were trying to find wild dragons, too, weren’t you," Eragon whispered into his ear. Murtagh’s quiet breath was a flinch by any other standard.

"I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything."

"None of your business anyway," Murtagh said, but belied his actions by sagging into Eragon’s arms like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Eragon sent a helpless look to Saphira, who was inspecting where Eragon had stumbled. Clearly, no help was coming from that quarter.

"Well—" Eragon dithered, then asked the obvious question. "Did you find any?"

Murtagh’s laugh was pained.

_"We didn’t go looking for dragons,"_ Thorn piped up. _"Murtagh had dreams."_

"Shut up, you stupid drake," Murtagh murmured into Eragon’s shoulder. 

_"We went looking for you,"_ Thorn said, and then grew silent as if someone had taken his thoughts. Murtagh had straightened up, and shot Eragon an indecipherable look. 

"Let’s leave," he said to Thorn, and turned tail.

Eragon reached out after him, again, but didn’t know how to keep him with them. 

* * *

When Thorn and Murtagh had turned south, the dreams stopped for a while. When they came back, they weren’t as explicit, weren’t as risqué, didn’t feel like the entire world was only focused on one man. 

Then, he started dreaming of Eragon falling down a mountain, falling and falling, and landing in a broken heap, and he woke sweat drenched in an entirely different way.

_"The other dreams I liked better,"_ Thorn said sleepily. _"Can’t we go back to that?"_

Murtagh tried to catch his breath. "Why don’t we ever share your dreams?" he asked. 

_"Because I don’t feel as much about hunting sheep as you do about your brother,"_ Thorn said, and that was entirely the wrong answer, because Murtagh didn’t want to feel anything about his brother, let alone what he was feeling now.

"Do you think it’s real," he asked his dragon, and didn’t know if he’d want an answer. What would be more heartrending?

Thorn set his head on his paws. _"It feels real,"_ he said after long deliberation. _"But I am not schooled in magics, you know that."_

There was a pause after that, with things Thorn wouldn’t ever say, wouldn’t ever think, that meant, "If you really want to know you should ask the Elves, or Eragon," but both weren’t what Murtagh would want to hear, and they both knew it.

_"We should go look at the mountains in the East. Maybe there are some wild dragons left still."_

"Fine," Murtagh replied, and so they went east, avoiding civilisation along the way.

They did find some traces of dragons, but nothing new. Ancient bones, caves; the further south they went, the denser their findings were, but none were left in the past hundred years. Thorn thought they had fled from Galbatorix, Murtagh feared worse.

They searched for a hall large enough for dragons, easily defendable, with large exits — not a defensible fortress, but something they could leave in the beat of a wing. And there it was, just past the first mountain range, overlooking both the river and the canyon, the only way people other than dragonriders could traverse this area.

It was a particular strange building; emerging seamless out of the white and orange stone, as if magic had formed it, as if stone had flowed into the air the way water went down — or maybe the acid from a dragon had burnt the excess stone away. The ceiling was smooth, with scalelike intervals, spiralling into a spiked top, not unlike Thorn’s ear. It was cave-like, in that the rough stone was untreated, dust collecting on the floor, but it felt like the great dwarven halls — the stone spiralling into dizzying heights.

_"This was made by dragons,"_ Thorn said unprompted, which was a first. The awe in his voice was recognisable. 

"Yes," Murtagh choked on air. "This was in my dreams," he didn’t add, but Thorn probably heard it clear and true. Murtagh had wanted to share it, but didn’t quite dare speak out loud.

He could see Eragon laid out on this floor, a fleeced blanket underneath him, stretched out under Murtagh’s gaze. A memory, but it was vivid.

A foreign emotion of longing coursed through Murtagh. "You want to stay here," he realised.

_"Not if it makes you uncomfortable,"_ Thorn replied immediately. Then, he nudged his rider with his snout and blew smoke into his face.

"Snow made you uncomfortable," Murtagh muttered, gesturing away the smoke.

_"We didn’t stay long there, either."_ Thorn paused. _"But you want to stay here because your brother might come."_

"I want to stay here because my br… Eragon will fall down that ravine," Murtagh said, and didn’t believe himself.

And so they stayed at the top of the dragon fortress, foraging for food in the surrounding forest, like they had in the North. Thorn was of the opinion that the wild-pigs were bigger, the wild-goats tastier, and even the rabbits added something to his palate, but Murtagh suspected that most of it was that he didn’t have to be careful about stumbling over humans while hunting. 

Murtagh whiled his time away by making a new harness, something more comfortable for everyday purposes. It didn’t look as shiny as the armour, but Thorn pronounced it serviceable. Then, he made himself new boots. They were marginally more shiny.

When Eragon arrived, Murtagh hadn’t been expecting him. Thorn and him had spent the day in the valley, hunting for wood to burn so the various flies and bugs wouldn’t disturb them at night.

Thorn saw Saphira, first, and driven by an unnatural anxiety, Murtagh had made them drop everything. The dreams of Eragon’s mangled body kept haunting him, and then, when Eragon fell down that hole in the ground, Murtagh managed to save him.

He changed his dreams. A silver-lining, if there ever was one, since he wanted Eragon saved, but he also wanted his dreams to come true. 

And so he left.

* * *

 

"Wait!" Eragon called after him.

Murtagh turned around and faced him, still not quite looking into his eyes. "What," he said, flatly.

And then Eragon shuffled his feet, and looked away. Murtagh looked closer, seeing the worn out eyes, the tense way he held his neck, and was entirely unprepared when Eragon's eyes met his again.

A heartbeat, and another. This was his mind laid barren before piercing eyes, and it was a softer, more permanent intrusion than the ones he had suffered from by the Twins and Galbatorix. It was also more metaphorical, but who cared about that if the mind was still torn in two? 

"What if we find dragons," Eragon said and his clear eyes were unwavering. "Nobody will care about you if we present them with dragons to ride."

Murtagh laughed. It was a harsh, mean sound. "Oh, yeah?" and he marched forward.

Eragon, his brother by the same mother, stood his ground, even when Murtagh gripped his neck and pulled him roughly closer. It was more of a bite at first, a way to let go off the anger and frustration of the sheer idiocy and stubbornness, more a bite than a kiss -- but Eragon didn't flinch. Perhaps that was what made Murtagh turn the kiss into something gentler, or maybe it was the way Eragon leaned into the hand that had come to frame his face, cradling his cheek between his hand. Murtagh rubbed his thumb along his jawbone -- contrary to his clean-shaven look, Eragon did have stubble.

Murtagh drew back, Eragons lips shiny and red. He pressed closer again, and pressed another kiss on soft lips. "And now?" Murtagh said, "Am I still allowed to accompany you?"  All he wanted, all he ever wanted, was to kiss him again, and again. "You think nobody will care," he said, his voice rough. "About the Dragonkiller. Don't you think that may be harder, for me, if nobody cares?"

Eragon looked at him, eyes wide. "Are we still talking about the dragon killing?" he asked, voice rough.  "You never seemed to care before if they thought you—"

"I wasn’t, then."

Eragon smiled wistfully. "And now that you are, you don’t want to—"

"That wasn’t what I meant," Murtagh replied, the harsh words gentled by the way he was still holding onto Eragon. "It’s not so easy. You should talk to your Elves first. You aren’t the only one impacted, if I stay."

"Of course," Eragon said, and grimaced, as if he meant the opposite. "Duty." The word sounded like a swearword out of his mouth. He turned, as if to go.

"You know, what? No," he said, and managed to surprise Murtagh by going for his throat, pressing him against the wall of the cave in a weird sort of reminiscence of his dreams. "That’s not good enough for me."

Murtagh didn’t struggle, was wide-eyed in the face of — Eragon was a dragon rider, of course he wouldn’t bow out of a fight easily, but this— it reminded Murtagh too much of—

Eragon had his arm pressed against his throat, a knee shoved between his legs, and was right there, up in his face. 

"Why were you kissing me?" he asked, "No, scratch that— Why were you rescuing me? What have you been doing here? Did you— You haven’t had contact with Nasuada, have you?"

_"Thorn?"_ Murtagh asked in his mind, instead of answering any of his brother’s questions. 

_"Busy,"_ his dragon replied. _"Figure this out yourself."_

"Who do you think we might be working for, Eragon?" he said, exasperated. "Who do you think could keep a dragon and his rider in check? I don’t want to rule the world, I think I have already amply proven that. Thorn and I went north, and we didn’t like the dark and the cold, and so we came back. We didn’t want to put Nasuada in an awkward position, so we went east — that was the entirety."

The arm that was holding him to the wall slackened. "Saphira is saying something about dreams."

Murtagh rolled his eyes. Then, he took the opportunity Eragon had afforded him, to break free of the hold. He didn’t let go once he had turned their positions around. "I can tell you all about the dreams I have about you," Murtagh whispered, and then — because Eragon had kissed him back, because fuck it, that was why— he licked a strip along Eragon’s tendon.

Eragon shivered, and relaxed against the wall. "That’s…interesting," he said in a low, quiet voice. "We're brothers."

"Are we?" Murtagh asked, "In any way that counts?"

"I want..." Eragon began, and then in a whisper, demanded, "Kiss me again, please."

Murtagh didn't. "You wanted to know about my dreams," he said. "Why? Did you have dreams about me?"

Eragon -- nodded; and that was it, Murtagh felt the same swooping elation when Thorn flew in loops, no, this was better than flying-- this was-- 

"There you were, stretched out on furs," Murtagh continued. "Naked," he said, and took the opportunity to put a hand under Eragon’s tunic. "Looking at me, and begging me to touch."

Eragon grabbed his hand, pulled it down, and suddenly Murtagh had a hand full of ass — he hitched him further up, so they were more comfortable, though how long he could hold this position, Murtagh wasn’t certain.

"Say the words," Eragon said, and then kissed him, wild and wet. It was another revelation — Murtagh had wanted to kiss him for so long, he hadn’t known how good it would feel to be the one to receive the kiss. Eragon’s lips were soft, and his body a hard, comfortable weight in his arms.

It was hard to breathe, he was doing nothing but breathing in Eragon — "I don’t want to wake up," he said, when Eragon let go for a second, to rearrange himself. Their lower bodies were pressing together, and there were hard edges where usually their armours had disappeared.

"You are awake," Eragon said, and then tried to wrangle his way underneath Murtagh’s clothes, but managed to tangle himself to the laces. "We're awake."

Murtagh laughed. "Good things happen to other people, not me." He helped untangle the mess, and then Eragon’s hand was on his cock, and it was bliss all the way down. Eragon’s hands weren’t as rough as Murtagh’s, smoothened out by some Elf magic — but the determined way Eragon was trying out different ways to please him, ways to make him come—

"Usually, you aren’t as active." Murtagh looked up from where his hands where trying to open Eragon’s tunic — and caught himself staring into his brother’s eyes.

"Are you complaining?" Eragon stopped. "I can do anything you want."

"No," Murtagh said, and pulled him closer. "No. But do you really want to hear about pathetic me, pining away after the hero of Alagaesia, or do you want to fuck."

"You're the one still talking," said Eragon, and dropped his pants.

Murtagh pulled his tunic over his head, and that was answer enough — somehow they made it to the furs, spread out on the floor, and there was the desire, and the burning need, and his brother in his bed, willingly. Murtagh could have never expected it, would never have believed anyone who told him this could be, and yet it was, and he was almost satisfied.

It turned out that Eragon hadn’t used the opportunity with the Elves to learn thousand year old sex practises, but maybe that was better— after Murtagh was done with him, they could develop their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Meanwhile, Saphira let out some of her grief on Thorn, who took it like a dragon who was used to torture, and then she went to tell the Elves that they shouldn't worry but Eragon would be here awhile studying the nature.
> 
> THE END


End file.
